Throwing Punches
by Maple Fay
Summary: Or: How THAT Scene from the Preview of Christmas Special Could Have Come to Be. One-shot, kind of M/M, spoilers for the CS, obviously.


_A/N: There's a steampunk piece I need to be working on. There's an accounting audit at my company. There's a particularly nasty report that needs me to translate it from Japanese to English. And then, there are the spoilers and trailers for the Christmas Special. Naturally, my Muse decided to overrule my sane mind._

_This is my take on how Matthew ends up punching sir Richard. I hope you find it both enjoyable and believable. Feedback is love._

* * *

><p>Matthew Crawley did not enjoy eavesdropping.<p>

He firmly believed that whatever is being said between a small group of people in a private situation should remain just this—private—until all parties concerned deem it safe to share with the rest of the world.

For this precise reason, he did not take any pleasure in overhearing sir Richard's heated speech, made in a forest clearing during their Christmas (well, pre-Christmas to be exact) hunting trip.

To be quite honest, Matthew did not enjoy the very _presence_ of sir Richard, but that couldn't be helped. He tried to stay away from the man, keeping close to Robert and trying to learn as much about the 'noble art of hunting' as he could. Sir Richard, on the other hand, strode proudly at the head of their small group, though—if the looks exchanged between Robert and Lord Hepworth were any indication—he probably hadn't had any more experience with hunting than Matthew himself. Either way, he pretended to be in his element, walking briskly through the undergrowth and ever so often taking a large gulp from a silver hipflask.

Matthew rolled his eyes at the sky and gladly accepted Robert's proposal of splitting the group and organizing a battue.

Which is why he'd found himself alone in the woods, slowly approaching the clearing where the group was supposed to reunite. Judging from the number of shots he'd heard from the other side of the forest, his attempts in making noise and scaring the fowl were successful, and the party would be turning back to the house quite satisfied. It made Matthew feel proud of his contribution, even though he hadn't really _shot_ anything.

He was about to step from between the trees and out onto the grassy path, when he heard sir Richard's voice, slightly slurred from the brandy:

"I do understand that you aunt needs to be here to charm that little man of hers, but you? You already _have_ a fiancée. And as far as I know, women sit the Christmas hunting out, even if they ride out on other occasions."

"I've always enjoyed it, so Papa lets me come along," Mary answer came, short and cold, but relatively calm.

"Well, you'd better take all you can from the rest of the day, because in _my_ house the wife is going to be entertaining guests, not trudging through the woods! I'm going to join your father now."

Matthew waited for a few minutes, making sure no sounds could be heard from the clearing, and finally stepped out on it: only to find Mary still standing there, hands stuck in the pockets of her hunting jacket, a distant, pensive look on her face.

"Oh," she said, giving him a weak smile, "here you are. I was beginning to worry you'd lost your way."

"Not quite," he smiled back, and brushed a stray leaf off his sleeve. "Where is everyone?"

"On the other side of the grove," she answered, pointing her chin in the general direction. "Shall we join them?"

So join them they did, not talking much as they walked towards the house. Mary was eerily quiet, lost in her own musings. Sir Richard provided everyone with a boastful record of his killings (he shot two quails out of twenty). Robert and Lord Hepworth smoked their pipes. Lady Rosamund looked nonplussed.

Matthew was just cold. Not only physically.

* * *

><p>The second time, it was on a Christmas Eve night, when Matthew was getting ready to go home and stopped in the hall, by the library door, waiting for his mother, still deep in conversation with Cousin Cora. That the two of them would become such good friends puzzled Matthew to no end, but since he supported the notion wholeheartedly, being made to wait for another ten minutes or so wasn't much of a sacrifice.<p>

That was why he had been forced, against his better judgment, to stand quietly in the hall and listen to an argument between sir Richard and Mary which took place in the smaller library. The topic made him roll his eyes—a reaction he'd classified as strongly connected to Carlisle's persona.

"I would have thought you _wanted_ my team to lose, if I didn't know better… Be careful not to cross the line, dear."

"You can't be serious. It's not my fault Edith beat you to an answer four times. You should talk to her if you feel threatened, not me."

"Maybe I shall. In the meantime, remember where your loyalties lie, Mary."

"How could I ever forget?"

Mary's voice was bitter, and raspy like a broken record, but it could have been a result of too much cold air.

Either way, it made Matthew frown, and think about the _double-entente_ of sir Richard's words for the reminder of the evening.

* * *

><p>The third time was right after the Christmas luncheon, in the corner of the drawing room. Matthew, sitting in an armchair on the left side of the fireplace, could not really help but overhear as sir Richard hissed at Mary, "Don't try and tell me how many glasses I can have! I'm a grown-up man, I've been making my own decisions for quite a while now, and I'm not planning to change that any time soon."<p>

"Richard, do be reasonable," came Mary's strangled voice, "don't make a scene."

"Don't tell me what to do!..."

There was a sound quite similar to a fist falling heavily upon the top of a cocktail cabinet, but fortunately it had been lost in a wave of laughter from Lady Rosamund and Lord Hepworth. Mary came closer to the ensemble, cheerfully demanding the joke to be repeated, and the moment passed—but Matthew started to seriously worry about his cousin.

He wished she'd come and talk to him—and knew she never would, not after everything he'd told her last spring.

He could only listen, and pay attention, in case she needed his help, needed _him_.

He didn't really think she would.

* * *

><p>He had been proved wrong on the late afternoon of December 27th, when, walking slowly through the second floor corridor, he all be stumbled upon Mary and sir Richard <em>again<em>.

They were standing on the staircase separating the bachelors' corridor from the ladies' one; Mary's back was against the wall, and sir Richard loomed darkly over her, his hand clasped around her arm like a makeshift manacle.

"I do not like this dress on you. Make sure to change into something more suitable for dinner."

"Of _course_ I will change!" Mary's voice was strained, slightly higher than her usual timbre. "For your information, I was planning to wear the same dress I had on on the Christmas Eve—"

"No. Not that one, either. You were wearing all black these past few days; you're not in mourning, for Heaven's sake! You'll be married within a month from now! At least _pretend_ to be happy!"

Mary did not answer that, but sir Richard clearly read something out of her silence, for he squeezed her arm with even greater force, eliciting a small gasp, and hissed maliciously:

"Very well. Have it your way, _Lady __Mary_. I would have tried and made you happy—but since you'd rather choose the path of thorns, who am I to disagree? I'll see you at dinner. _Don__'__t_ wear black."

Having said that, he let go of her hand and sprinted upstairs, not noticing Matthew plastered to a wall behind the corner of the corridor.

Mary stayed where he had left her for a long moment, breathing heavily and massaging her freed arm with a half-automatic motion. When Matthew was about to walk down and start some casual conversation, in hope of finding out whether she was fine, she suddenly snapped out of it: blinking rapidly, she turned on her heel and ran down the stairs, snatching a coat from the wardrobe by the front door and slipping outside.

Matthew looked out the window, upon the forlorn, snow covered landscape, and gritted his teeth as he started to descend the stairs.

* * *

><p>"You should have at least worn something thicker. You'll catch your death out here."<p>

She flinched at the sound of his voice, but did not turn, her hand coming up to wipe at her face. "Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst imaginable scenario."

The bite, the venom, the sarcasm he could have endured—but not the lifeless, resigned despair. "What's wrong?" he demanded, circling her and catching a glimpse of wetness remaining on the top of her right cheek. "Why were you crying?"

"What's in it to you? I thought you hated me."

"I don't hate you. Maybe it would have been easier if I did, but I don't; and I don't think I ever could."

"Neither could I," she whispered, raising her eyes to his. "Though it would have made many things much simpler."

"Like you marrying a man you don't love, and who most probably doesn't love you?"

She tsked impatiently and ran one hand across her forehead. "Don't go there, Matthew. It's easier if you don't."

"Easier for whom? Surely not for you! Mary," he all but pleaded, taking her hand and holding it, gently but firmly, despite her weak attempts to break free, "why do you let him do this to you? All those things he'd been telling you…"

She shook her head, but didn't ask how he knew about the conversations. "I should get used to it, I guess. After all, every husband is practically an owner of his wife."

"You shouldn't let him do so only because of 'the way things generally are'! This is madness, Mary…"

"No," she interrupted him gently, and finally pulled her hand out of his grasp. "It's consequence. It's what happens when a person makes a choice—perhaps not the best one, but at least the least hurtful one."

"_Least_ hurtful? For whom, exactly, is your marrying a man who doesn't seem to respect you the least hurtful solution?"

"For my family. For… me, in a way."

He blinked, feeling as if he'd jumped to the other side of the looking glass. "Explain this to me, please, for I'm afraid I fail to understand."

She sighed and looked down at the snow beneath her feet, her hands falling powerlessly down her sides. She was quiet for a long while, and Matthew almost lost hope of getting an answer, when she finally spoke, her voice broken and dull:

"Since it doesn't matter anymore, I might as well tell you… I took a lover, Matthew. Just once, and somewhat against my will—but the fact remains. I am not virtuous."

It was like being punched in the spleen: all air left him, and for a moment he only saw red. When he finally regained his senses, Mary was giving him the saddest smile he'd ever seen, tears all but spilling from her eyes.

He shook his head, massaged his right temple, desperately trying to clear his mind. "Is that what this is all about? He's found out, and now he's using this to torment you? My God, Mary, this only proves that you shouldn't…"

"No," she raised one hand to stop him, and turned away, facing the house, her face and cold and closed as its dark windows. "That's not the point at all; Richard would be the first to broke off the engagement if it were. The point is…" she shook her head and laughed humourlessly, "…and I've been avoiding telling you this for how long, exactly? Never mind that now. The point is, Matthew, that my lover was Kemal, Kemal Pamuk. Surely you remember him?"

He could but nod, speechless, stunned to the point of losing his mind. She went on, her tone almost breezy, though her face was a picture of anguish, self-hatred, and pain. "Should the circumstances of his death, circumstances involving _me_, were to be publicly known, it would mean a ruin to all our family, not just me, though I am the only person to blame in this. Richard found out about this—and it was me who told him, for Bates' wife caught whiff of the story, and threatened to sell it to some paper. Richard bought the rights to it from her, kept the whole affair under the cover: surely you agree that it gives him all the right to demand obedience from me?

"I think he relishes having an upper hand in this. Being able to control me. And though I may not like the very idea of any man having that much power over me, I see no other way out of this situation. You should at least understand that."

And understand he did, knowing very well that the confession—the most heavily guarded secret she'd carried, and probably the reason they were standing here in the first place, next to each other but miles away—resulted not only from the lack of faith in a better future, but also from the statement he'd made over Lavinia's grave, shattering each and every hope for a life they could have had together, pushing Mary into the abyss of despair. It 'didn't matter anymore', because _he_ was the one who made it clear that it couldn't possibly influence their future together—for there was no such future to be had.

By yielding to his grief, to remorse and blame he felt over the truth in Lavinia's words, he had pushed Mary off the cliff—and she's been falling ever since, he could see it clearly now.

Cold, menacing fury rose in his chest as he took a step in her direction. "You must not marry him."

Her face fell, and her lips trembled as she shook her head hopelessly. "That stopped being an option a long time ago."

"But it cannot possibly be the only way!"

"Matthew," she said gently, and touched his sleeve, her thumb brushing the skin of his wrist and making him shiver, not necessarily because her hands were cold, "I appreciate your saying that, I really do. But we have both made our choices, you and I."

"Perhaps I was wrong to make mine the way I did."

Something shone in her eyes but for a moment—a hope, a desire, a longing—but she shook her head, pulled her hand back, and it was gone. "Do not pity me, Mathew. I couldn't stand it."

And then she ran back towards the house, leaving him alone in the darkness.

* * *

><p>Less than an hour later he met her on the staircase, and took in the dress she wore, one that he hadn't seen before—simple, yet elegant, relatively low-cut, in a deep shade of crimson. "I like this," he said, trying to keep his voice calm and measured, unlike his feelings. "Is it new?"<p>

She nodded, avoiding his eyes. "I had it made for the New Year's Eve dinner, but…"

"I know," he cut in, not bothering to hide his irritation. "Sir Richard should be pleased."

Her head shot up, and she bit her lip, but said nothing. He followed her down, watching her as she moved, one hand on the railing, the other clutching her dress with slightly more force than necessary.

A footman opened the drawing room door, and there he was: sir Richard Carlisle, slouching on the ottoman, a glass of brandy—a prop he'd been using extensively during this past week—in his slightly unsteady hand.

"There she is," he slurred, and got up, giving Mary a once-over that made Matthew's head spin with fury, "my wife to be. I told her to stop wearing black, and she did. Now what does she wear? _Scarlet_. How very _appropriate_."

Out of the corner of his eye Matthew could see Cousin Cora flinching, and Robert standing up from his chair—but before any of them could react, Matthew stepped forward, coming between Mary and sir Richard, regarding the man with cold disgust in his eyes.

"I believe that particular shade of red is called 'crimson', sir Richard," he spoke calmly, never taking his eyes off his opponent's face. "And even if the dress was scarlet, you should apologize to Mary for insulting her."

Sir Richard looked down at him, narrowing his eyes as the alcohol was clearly blurring his vision. "Why should I?" he demanded stubbornly, apparently feeling quite confident of his right to call his fiancée whatever he liked. "Isn't that who she is? A scarlet w—"

He didn't finish.

It's generally hard to talk when one's being punched in the face, and falls down, their head bouncing off the rug from the sheer force of the blow.

Mary gasped and ran over to Matthew, looking from him to sir Richard and back, but not moving to help her probably-no-longer-(or-at-least-Matthew-hoped-so)-husband-to-be up.

"Are you hurt?" she asked instead, and reached out to touch his throbbing hand. Matthew stifled a moan, and covered her fingers with his.

"Not at all," he replied, and watched with quiet content as sir Richard stumbled around, trying to get up, with which nobody cared to assist him. "Actually, I feel—refreshed."

And as Mary's cool, delicate hands brushed over his reddened knuckles—as Robert turned to the footman by the door and demanded sir Richard's things were packed and his motor prepared for his immediate departure—as Isobel came over and offered her son a glass of sherry, which he refused, for his hands were now inexplicably twined with Mary's—Matthew Crawley could feel that a part of his life came to an end, and another one began.

He did not know yet what it meant, or what the future held. But he _did_ know, as he looked into Mary's eyes and saw the exact same thing he'd seen outside, in the dark—the hope, the longing, the desire—that he couldn't wait to see this future happen.

**Fin**


End file.
